


Caught Between the Cold and the Rain

by 2spooky4u, your mom (2spooky4u)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agent!Dean, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe- Intelligence Agency, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Child Murder, Crime Fighting, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Doctor!Castiel, Emma is alive, F/F, F/M, Intelligence AU, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder Mystery, Serial Killers, Slow Build, Special agent!Dean, lawyer!Sam, special agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2spooky4u/pseuds/2spooky4u, https://archiveofourown.org/users/2spooky4u/pseuds/your%20mom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a case takes a turn for the highly personal, Special Agent Dean Winchester is forced to come to terms with things long buried. As a highly prolific serial killer of children slips through his fingers again and again, he finds himself letting his guard down at the most inconvenient of times around a socially awkward trauma doctor with a weird name. As time ticks away and leads are followed, is there anyone Dean can still trust? And if so, who?</p><p>Update schedule TBD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. This is the longest fic I've ever written. I really wanted an AU where Dean is a spy/special agent type thing, and this kind of started as a one shot and grew and grew. I think he's kind of like Special Agent Booth from Bones? Bsically just a detective/investigator/badass for an unspecified agency.

**October 10, 2013, 0336**   


 

The papers had it all wrong. 

  
  


Yes, the serial killer was probably a psychopath, yes, the serial killer targeted teenage girls, yes, the serial killer had quite a few known victims.

  
  


But the huge, game-changing thing that the papers got wrong was that pesky little pronoun _he_.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


**October 9, 2013, 0817**

  
  


"Agent Winchester, there's been another body."

  
  


Special Agent Dean Winchester's stomach plummeted. He swore beneath his breath and set his coffee mug on the desk, pushing aside the stack of files he had been planning to poke at this morning. 

  
  


"Shit. You sure it's the Lolita Killer?" 

  
  


"Positive," responded Agent Victor Hendrikson, gazing at Winchester with his ever-present frown from where he stood by the door to the office.

  
  


"Brief me," Winchester said, standing up. Hendrikson began to walk down the hallway, not waiting for the other agent. Winchester caught up easily, and his colleague began to talk.

  
  


"Unidentified remains. Female, teenage, dressed in the same white lingerie as the six previous vics. Body completely charred, garments applied postumously. A garbage bag was found five feet away containing a copy of the state's drivers' manual, a USB drive, a glass rosary, and a smashed iPhone."

  
  


"Where?" Winchester asked.

  
  


"Up near Sutton's Creek, tract of for sale acreage. Woman walking her dogs found it when one of them ran off."

  
  


"The vic tied up?" 

  
  


"Yep. I'm to act as your partner as well as your supervisor while Agent Bradbury's on leave. That means my car, my rules, my lead."

  
  


The two agents headed out of the office compound into the parking garage where everyone from the janitor to the most senior officers parked. Hendrikson tossed Winchester the keys to his own car.

  
  


"Can't we take the Impala?" Winchester grumbled.

  
  


"No."

  
  


The drive out to Sutton's Creek usually took around forty minutes. The two agents didn't talk. The Lolita Killer was one of the grisliest serial killers currently active, and probably the most adept at staying uncaught. There was no consistent schedule, no DNA evidence, no fingerprints, and essentially no leads on the case. L. K., as the press called the killer, came under the radar the previous March when a second set of remains identical to a first showed up, linking the two and making it an official serial killer. The first victim was identified as a seventeen year old ward of the state who had been labeled as a runaway and therefore hadn't been afforded a missing persons case when she disappeared in February. The second victim was a sixteen year old girl who was reported missing after she didn't arrive home on the second leg of her flight. She was abducted in Chicago and then driven into Pennsylvania, therefore upping the jurisdiction to the federal level at the crossing of state lines. Both bodies were burned after death, the remains being transported to out-of-the-way locations where they were dressed in lacy white lingerie and left with a bag of personal items nearby. There was never any usable DNA or fingerprints, because the killer planted hundreds of people's DNA at the crime scene and wore gloves throughout the arrangement of the body. Coming up with nothing, the investigation came to a halt until, in late April, an eighteen year old girl vanished from her waitressing shift and was found a week later in a self storage warehouse, wearing the telltale white lingerie. Then came a thirteen year old who went to the playground to find temporary reprieve from her parents' abuse and never came home. Her mother and father didn't report her absence for a week because they feared letting the police know of why she ran. She was found in late June, in the basement of a high school closed for the summer when an electrician was replacing the circuitry. After that was a pair of fourteen year old girls, twins, who vanished from their camp cabin in the middle of August and were found in a junkyard after the owner came back from vacation. Then, the killings had stopped.

  
  


For a while.

  
  


Now, as they approached Sutton's Creek, Special Agent Winchester was determined. He _needed_ to find the killer before another victim was taken. It was the longest case he had ever been assigned and it was starting to affect his life twenty four seven. The case had become high profile because of the twins, Rachel and Hester, and their father, a wealthy senator. The press was ruthless, and the notoreity did more harm than good. His partner, Special Agent Bradbury, had been physically assaulted by one of the victim's fathers, and been forced to resign from the case. She was in Hawaii now with her girlfriend, Dorothy, until further notice. Winchester wanted nothing more than to put the Lolita Killer behind bars and maybe sentenced to death. 

  
  


The crime scene was crawling with the forensic team, taking photos and looking for particulates and all of that fun stuff. 

  
  


"Agent Winchester. Agent Henrikson," said a short, rather funky-looking guy in _freaking pajama pants_.

  
  


"And you are....?" Agent Winchester asked pointedly.

  
  


"Oh! Silly me, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm the Sheriff, Garth Fitzgerald." The man grinned and stuck his hand out to Agent Henrikson, who stared at it coldly.

  
  


"There's a girl lying dead, show some respect," he said sternly. Winchester nodded in agreement.

  
  


"Well, we won't catch the killer by being grumpy," Garth said, retracting his hand.

  
  


"I'm afraid there's no more 'we', Sheriff," Agent Winchester informed him. "Our jurisdiction."

  
  


"I meant 'we' as in the good guys. You know, the guys who didn't kill her."

  
  


"You're new to your position." It wasn't a guess, both agents could practically smell the inexperience. 

  
  


"Yes, I am," the Sheriff said, nonplussed. "And I would be happy to help out however I can."

  
  


"You can start by gathering all missing persons cases involving female minors under your jurisdiction and wiring them to Special Agent Winchester."

  
  


"Cool beans."

  
  


Agents Winchester and Henrikson shared a look. This guy was already getting on their nerves. 

  
  


  
  


* * *

 

 

**October 10, 2013, 0249**

  
  


Dean groaned, glaring daggers through the dark room at his phone which was trilling loudly. It was the ringtone he used for work related numbers, and at this time of night (morning) it had to be important. Blinking away the fog of sleep, he sat up and slid his finger along the touchscreen to answer the call.

  
  


"You've reached Special Agent Dean Winchester, can I help you?" Dean flicked on the bedside lamp and slid his feet into his slippers.

  
  


"Winchester, you need to get to the office. It's about Emma."

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


**January 2, 1997, 1639**

  
  


_"This is Dean Winchester speaking."_

  
  


_"Dean, it's Lisa Braeden."_

  
  


_"Oh. Lisa, um, how are you?"_

  
  


_"Cut it out, Dean."_

  
  


_"Sorr-y," Dean muttered, raising his eyebrows. He hadn't known she was going to be so touchy_.

  
  


_"Dean, we need to talk."_

  
  


_"Look, Lisa, it's over, okay? I'm not-"_

  
  


_"Oh, for crying out loud, don't flatter yourself. I'm not that desperate." Lisa paused over the phone. Dean could hear her sigh. They had called it off after a week of casual sex that September. It had been fun, but neither party had deluded themselves into thinking there was anything there._

  
  


_"So.....?"_

  
  


_"So meet me at the vaguely sketchy Chinese restaraunt near Rosemont Avenue."_

  
  


_Thirty minutes later, Dean slid into an ugly green booth across from Lisa. She looked tired, dark circles rimming her eyes. She hadn't bothered with any makeup._

  
  


_"Hey, Lisa." Dean smiled tersely. "Want something to eat?"_

  
  


_"Nah, I don't trust the food here. It was the first place that came to mind."_

  
  


_"Cool. Well, I'm going to get the, uh, General Tso's chicken."_

  
  


_As Dean ate his food, Lisa picked at her fingernails. She was a far cry from the confident, exuberant woman he had gotten to know (biblically) towards the end of '96._

  
  


_"Dean, I need you to know that I am_ not _interested in getting back together," Lisa said, testing the waters. Dean nodded._

  
  


_"Okay. So....."_

  
  


_"And no matter what you think, it's my choice to make."_

  
  


_"Lisa, what is this all about?" Dean took a long sip of his root beer._

  
  


_"I'm pregnant, Dean." Lisa looked him in the eyes. "You're the father."_

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


**October 10, 2013, 0314**

  
  


"Winchester."

  
  


"Missouri," Agent Winchester said, nodding at her. They didn't run into each other much, as she was the head honcho after dark, when he was usually long gone. She was mothering yet she had long since earned the respect of everyone in the building. 

  
  


"That USB drive that was found on the girl? One of our techs got past the encription," Missouri said. Her face was wrought with worry and sympathy, both of which frightened Agent Winchester. It was bad news when the most experienced of agents got worried. 

  
  


_It's about Emma_.

  
  


Dean hadn't seen his daughter in a while. Lisa had full custody, and she didn't like him to be too involved in her life and Emma's, because of the dangers his job posed on a regular basis. She never stayed the night. He never got to go to her birthday parties or share her Christmases and New Year's. If he went to a school play or a figure skating event, he never could go and congratulate her, especially not since the whole Lolita Killer entanglement had begun and gained attention. It hurt him to think that he missed out on so much of his daughter's life. Sometimes, he wondered: if he had joined a different profession, would it be safe to have her on weekends? Maybe if he had been less selfish, less reckless-

  
  


"Winchester, you with us?"

  
  


"Huh? Sorry, I, uh, I only got two hours of sleep," the agent said absentmindedly. He had followed Missouri to one of the computer forensics labs, and he was too busy thinking about his daughter to pay attention to what the young computer tech was saying.

  
  


"Why don't you tell Agent Winchester one more time," the senior agent urged the pretty young tech.

  
  


"All right, so, it took us a while, but we were able to unscramble the file. Agent Samandriel suspects it was supposed to become significantly easier to decode at midnight, and we stripped it down. The drive didn't seem to belong to the girl, as there were no traces of homework assignments, wiped or otherwise. Inias said the USB casing itself was only made three weeks ago, according to the lot number imprinted in the plastic. It was made along with tens of thousands of duplicates and then sold to Office Depot stores and he lost the trail from there. 

  
  


"Anyways, there is one file on it, a Microsoft Word doc, and it's right here." Agent Colt spun her screen around so that Agent Winchester and Agent Mosely could see it.

  
  


Winchester blinked at the screen, unable to believe what he was seeing. On the document was a picture of two teenage girls. One of whom, he didn't recognize, was staring at the camera, frightened, brown eyes huge against her wan complexion.

  
  


The other girl was Emma Winchester.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


**June 9, 1997, 1648**

  
  


_"Uh, is there a Mister Winchester?" A frazzled looking nurse stepped into the waiting room, glancing at his clipboard and then up at the waiting room. Dean stood up, ignoring the apathetic looks he was getting from the other fathers and fathers-to-be scattered around on the stiff couches. Most of them were older than Dean, excepting one teenage boy who might have been a brother or a nephew of some woman. He didn't really care. He had gotten the call that Lisa was in labor at two in the morning, only to show up at the hospital to find that he wasn't allowed back into the room with her. He wasn't her spouse and she didn't want him there, despite being the baby's father._

  
  


_Now, it was almost five in the evening, and Dean was sick of reading brochures explaining all about birth defects and complications during labor. He had even called his brother who had been sympathetic but cranky, and around noon he called his own father, who had little if anything helpful to contribute._

  
  


_"Come on back. You're here for....Lisa Braeden?"_

  
  


_"Yes," Dean confirmed._

  
  


_"You have a daughter, Emma Grace Winchester," the nurse informed him, voice emotionless. Dean felt a twinge of irritation that he had missed her birth and her naming. It was true that he didn't have much right to be there, but all the same, he couldn't help but feel like he had been cheated out of some major moment in his life. It wasn't wrong for a guy to want to witness the birth of his firstborn, was it?_

  
  


_But then there was a surge of pride at hearing her name. Emma Grace Winchester. It wasn't a terrible name, far from it. It might not have been the name that he would have chosen, but he already loved it._

  
  


_He wondered why Lisa had given the baby his last name instead of hers. If she didn't intend for him to have a role in the baby's life, then why would she, for all intents and purposes, attach her to him from birth?_

  
  


_All thoughts of names left his mind upon entering the room. It was stuffy and brightly lit, and an older couple he assumed were Lisa's parents were sitting there, the man giving him not so subtle looks of disdain and the woman-_

  
  


_Lisa's mother was holding his daughter._

  
  


_His daughter._

  
  


_His_ daughter _._

  
  


_The words sounded foreign in his mind. Daughters were things other people had._

  
  


_Lisa herself had been cleaned since birth, and she was sitting on the bed, watching Dean cooly. She didn't bother to greet him. According to the many pamphlets in the waiting room, her hormones were probably going batshit right now. He decided that it was best not to press her. She seemed angry at him for not being there, yet she would have been even angrier, most likely, if he_ had _._

  
  


_"May I hold her?" Dean asked Lisa's mother politely. He couldn't see the baby's face, the way the older woman was holding her._

  
  


_"Lisa? Can this-" the woman cast him a vaguely disapproving look- "_ man _here hold Emma Grace?" She looked at Lisa, holding the baby tightly to her chest. Dean tried his hardest not to bristle. Dean decided that he was only ever going to call her Emma. 'Emma Grace' sounded too stiff and formal._

  
  


_"Mmhmm," Lisa said, giving a small grunt. Mostly, she just looked like she wanted to pass out for a few hours._

  
  


_"Support her neck and for god's sake, be careful," the older woman directed Dean, not even bothering to hold back the curl of her lip._

  
  


_"Ma'am, I've held babies before," Dean said, trying his best to stay calm. He had reached out his arms, but the lady had not moved._

  
  


_"And how did that work out for you?"_

  
  


_Dean turned his gaze on the older man, mouth dropping open a little bit._

  
  


_"Well, I think I got the concept down pretty well when I_ carried my infant brother out of a burning building and saved his life _. So if you would please be so kind as to let me hold my daughter," Dean snapped. The older couple exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised._

  
  


_"Mom, I_ said it was okay _, remember?" Lisa interjected. "Dean has saved tons of lives, he can handle a baby."_

  
  


_"Go sit in that chair," the older woman ordered. Dean's jaw set in a hard line but he complied without a word. He knew to pick his battles._

  
  


_Then, before he really knew what was happening, there was a squalling infant in his arms._

  
  


_"Hey, hey, it's okay," he soothed, cradling her gently in his arms. He eased back the blankets that she was wrapped in so that he could see her face. As Emma contented to the fact that she wasn't in danger, she settled down quickly, gazing up at Dean with milky blue eyes._

  
  


_She was beautiful. A rush of something he never knew he could feel flooded him. It was as if his entire world shifted and realigned to center on the tiny bundle in his arms. She was pink and bald and so, so tiny. Dean felt awed that this little person, so brand new, was_ his _. She smelled of soap and clean blankets, and Dean felt himself begin to cry a little bit as she made eye contact with him._

  
  


_"I'm Daddy," he said quietly, rocking her slightly back and forth. He smiled through the blurriness that was caused by the tears, and brushed his fingertips along her forehead, swallowing back more tears as she started to gurgle, flashing her gummy little smile. He traced a finger across her cheeks, grazing over her nose and tiny lips. She latched on, sucking on his forefinger, still smiling merrily._

  
  


_Later, after he signed the birth certificate and drove himself home, he couldn't shake the feeling of immense loss that stemmed from the lack of cries and giggles in his apartment._

  
  


* * *

 

 

**October 10, 2013, 0318**

  
  


Emma and the other teenage girl were in a dark room, their faces given a gaunt pallor by the harsh effect of the flash. Emma sported a black eye and the other girl a blooied lip. Neither looked directly into the camera. 

  
  


The second girl was smaller than Emma, but looked to be about the same age, sixteen. She had brown eyes, dark hair, and a distinctive beauty mark beneath one eye. She wore a school uniform, maroon and grey plaid kilt with a white button down, maroon sweater vest, and navy blazer. A tie hung askew around her neck, half under her collar and half against her neck. She looked a lot more calm than Emma beside her, less shell-shocked. 

  
  


Emma wore a pink dress and a pair of black tights which had runs all over them, showing bits of pale skin. Her blonde hair was grimy and dull, hanging in thick strands around her face where it escaped from her ponytail holder. She looked dazed, scared, feeble, and utterly, _utterly_ breakable. A smudge of blood was crusted at the edge of her hair, streaking down to her eyebrow.

  
  


Beneath the photograph, written in a simple 12 pt. sans serif font, was a caption:

  
  


_I'm getting bored. They're alive, for now. Play nice and they'll stay that way._

  
  


Agent Winchester felt his heart beat painfully in his chest, a rapid stacatto that reflected his rising despair. He ran his clammy palms along the pilled fabric of his pajama bottoms, focusing on the texture to anchor him. The young tech was chewing nervously on her bottom lip. Dean barely felt the comforting hand that was placed on his shoulder as it became harder and harder to breathe deeply.

  
  


This was never supposed to happen. He had been so careful with Emma, stayed far away so that this wouldn't happen. It couldn't be her, in the picture, it had to be a composite, a look-alike, a secret clone, a robot, a bad dream, a prank, a training protocol, a painting, anything but Emma, his daughter-

  
  


"Dean, honey," Missouri was saying, and he turned his head to look at her, but his eyes refused to focus. She put her other hand on his other shoulder and blinked at her. She never called him by his first name at work, never. 

  
  


"Take my chair," the young technician offered. Then, she scampered away, mumbling something about making coffee. Dean allowed himself to be guided gently downwards, the chair uttering a _huff_ and giving a little as his weight settled. He stared dumbly at the computer screen, unable to process.

  
  


One of the things that had allowed Special Agent Dean Winchester to rise ranks so quickly was his ability to compartmentalize. He was terrible at interpersonal relationships and dealing with emotions, and while it alienated him from his few remaining family members and civilian friends, it made him stellar in the field. He moved on seamlessly if he lost a partner in action, was slow to trust, and quick to think. He handled some of the institution's most harrowing and intensive cases, surviving the toughest scrapes as other agents dropped away like flies. He had saved countless lives in his time, and brought down some of the most notorious and evil killers.

  
  


Now, however, he was panicking. The pretty tech agent brought him coffee, triple espresso by the taste of it, and he sipped it, fervent temperature nonwithstanding. It burnt his tongue and his throat, and it sat painfully in his stomach as it acclimated to his body temperature. Missouri gently took the cup from him after he finished because he kept trying to sip from the empty vessel, not even noticing that he had already finished it.

  
  


"You got a brother, don't you, boy?" Missouri asked, pulling over a rooling chair from another desk to sit next to the shell-shocked special agent. There were protocols for incidents such as this one, when cases got highly personal, and none of them seemed particularly appealing. They could remove Agent Winchester from active duty to eliminate the risk of poor decisions in the field, or they could let him go in anyway knowing that he likely wouldn't keep his nose out with his daughter involved.

  
  


“Yeah,” mumbled Agent Winchester absently, staring at his thumbnail like it was the most evil perp he had ever come into contact with.

  
  


“Do you want to call him or should I do it?” 

  
  


“I will,” Dean said, shaking his head at her offer. He hadn't talked to Sam in a while, not since their....differences came to light. He had no idea how Sam would even react. He had met Emma maybe once. But right now, Dean felt alone and scared. He hoped Sam would be the bigger man and put this stuff pasthim just until Emma was found.

  
  


If she was found.

  
  


Agent Winchester swallowed, steeling himself. That Emma would not survive was not an option to even consider. He had to snap out of it. It was probably still early enough on the West Coast that Sam might still be awake, reading poetry and getting his hair braided or whatever. 

  
  


Dean focused on the eleven short beeps in his ear as the numerals were dialed. Then, there was that tinny ringing noise that was probably just added to smart phones to make it seem less uncanny while the user waited for the recipient to pick up. Once, twice, three times, four times-

  
  


“Sam Winchester speaking,” answered a gruff voice on the other end. Dean balked as everything he had been planning on saying fled his mind all of a sudden. “Hello?” Sam was asking. 

  
  


“Sam,” Dean said in a less than dignified manner. Agent Mosely pursed her lips sadly at him, shaking her head at his lacking conversational skills.

  
  


“ _Dean?_ ” Sam asked incredulously, any residual drowsiness gone in the wake of his surprise. Dean could hear something rustling in the background, probably bed sheets. A female voice said something, and Dean wondered if he had interupted anything. “No, It's fine, go back to sleep,” Sam assured her, and then the elder Winchester could hear his brother's heavy footfalls leading him away.

  
  


“You still there?” Dean asked, not because he thought Sam was gone, but because he wanted to subtly remind his brother that he was still here.

  
  


“Are you drunk, Dean?” Sam asked, and Dean could almost hear the frown through the phone. 

  
  


“I'm not drunk, Sam,” Dean said, a little bit ashamed that his brother just assumed that the only reason he would call was because he was intoxicated.

  
  


“Dude, how late is it on the East Coast?” Sam demanded. Dean could hear a sink running and glasses chinking. 

  
  


“Sam, Emma's been taken,” Dean blurted, unwilling to dance around the dysfunction any longer. He was tense and irate. 

  
  


“What?” Sam asked.

  
  


“Emma. She's been kidnapped. It's the Lolita Killer,” Dean elaborated quietly.

“Shit,” Sam said, setting down his glass of water. “When?”

  
  


“I don't know, she was with Lisa,” _like she always is_.

  
  


“What's going on?”

  
  


“The Lolita Killer saidthat he was bored, so he took Emma and another girl and I don't know what to do,” Dean admitted against his better judgment. The other two agents gazed at him, sympathy and pity painted across their features.

  
  


“Do you want me to fly out there?” Sam asked after a moment or two of allowing the information to sink in. 

  
  


Dean didn't answer.

  
  


“Dean?” Sam tried. “Do you want me to fly out- oh, screw it, my phone says that there is a nonstop flight in two hours.”

  
  


“Okay,” Dean said. The young tech agent's computer blipped, signifying an email. He wandered away to let her work.

  
  


“Cool. I'll call you later,” Sam said, hanging up.

  
  


“Yeah. Bye,” Dean told the _call ended_ screen.

  
  


“Um, Agent Winchester?” It was the tech agent. “We have some new info on the case.”

  
  


“Yeah. Shoot,” Agent Winchester said, trying desperately to compartmentalize.

  
  


“We've IDed the other girl in the photo. Her name is K. Chambers, age sixteen, never showed up to school one Wednesday earlier this month. Both Krissy and your daught- Both girls fit the profile. And the last body showed traces of DNA that did not belong to her.”

  
  


“Are they the killer's? Did they ID him?” Dean asked. 

  
  


“Um, no, Agent Winchester,” she said, checking her screen once again as if she needed to make sure she had read it correctly. “They didn't find a match for the killer's identity....but they did determine that the killer is female.” 

  
  


Dean's stomach dropped. They had it all wrong. The papers had it all wrong. 

  
  


Yes, the serial killer was probably a psychopath, yes, the serial killer targeted teenage girls, yes, the serial killer had quite a few known victims.

  
  


But the huge, game-changing thing that the papers got wrong was that pesky little pronoun _he_.

  
  


Who knew how many suspects had been skirted over because of the assumption that the killer was male?

  
  


If the blood of the victims wasn't on Dean's hands every time he failed to catch him- _her_ \- then it was now.


	2. Family Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DIRK THE JERK  
> DIRK THE JERK  
> DIIIIRK THE JERK

**Monday, October 7, 2013, 1536**

 

 

Emma Winchester shut her locker with a bang, sliding her other arm into her jacket sleeve before adjusting her backpack comfortably on her back. It was heavy. _My teachers must have gotten together and made a pact to give us as much homework as humanly possible every Monday_. She had a lab write up in Physics that had only been assigned two hours ago and was due tomorrow, not to mention ballet practice, three chapters to read in _Tess Of The D'Urbervilles_ , a pre-calculus test to study for, French homework.... Sometimes, she really regretted that little voice in her mind that challenged her to take on more and more, to work harder, to outdo her classmates in everything she could. Well, most of them, anyways. She was glad that she had made friends with the few eleventh graders that were higher in class ranking than she was, otherwise she might have let jealousy and competitiveness get the best of her.

 

 

Emma walked outside, blinking in the harsh sunlight, and spotted a couple of her friends milling around the student parking lot.

 

 

“Hey, Emma,” called a rather tiny Asian boy with shaggy dark hair. “Are we still on for studying this afternoon? Kate's going to come around five.”

 

 

“It's Wednesday, so I have ballet,” Emma responded, coming up to stand with Kate and Kevin, nodding a hello to the other girl.

 

 

“If you want to come around afterwards....” Kevin trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. The intelligent young man was stricken with a terrible social awkwardness, and Emma knew he always felt anxious when routines changed. Emma's transition to a higher ballet class had shifted her free afternoons around. Now, she was free Tuesdays and Fridays, rather than Mondays and Wednesdays.

 

 

“I'll be there like, twenty minutes after the class ends,” Emma confirmed, nodding. “It takes me a few minutes to change, and then I'll bike there. Are we going to work on piecewise functions? I'm kind of rusty on them. I was out the other day when we learned them.”

 

 

“I'm pretty good at them,” Kate said. “I can help you, if you want.”

 

 

“I'd love that,” Emma responded. “But I have got to go. _Mademoiselle_ gets really pissed if we come late.”

 

 

“See ya,” Kate said, walking over to her beat-up old car and hopping in, offering to swing Kevin by his house before going to her babysitting job.

 

 

“Bye.”

 

 

Emma pulled her hair back into a low ponytail before fiddling with the numbers on her bike lock: one one two three five eight, the first six numbers in the Fibonacci sequence. She had thought about changing it, because it was general knowledge that she was a nerd and she was paranoid that someone might guess, but then again there were always a half dozen nicer bikes locked up there on any given day. She fastened her helmet over her head and stuffed the bike lock into the little front pouch of her backpack.

 

 

The bike ride to Masters' Ballet Company was only several blocks, but it still made Emma uneasy. The big public high school she attended gathered a lot of traffic around the time of dismissal, and weaving her way in and out of traffic worried her. She would stay on the sidewalks, but there were too many pedestrians. Emma mounted her bicycle and began weaving through the parking lot, sighing when she found the exit blocked by a big, flashy Porsche that belonged to none other than the school's football captain, Dirk. She and Dirk went a long way back, both of them having attended the same Catholic elementary school and public middle school. She shuddered as she remembered all of the times he had messed with her: dipping the end of her plait in glue. Putting worms in her tuna sandwich, making the rest of third grade miserable as she was called Worma for six months. Paying her sixth grade Secret Santa to give her an old sneaker for the final day when they opened up their gifts in front of everyone. Getting ahold of some red acrylic paint in art class at age thirteen and blobbing it on her stool, so that the popular girls taunted her for getting her period all over her clothes (that was when Kate had stepped in to defend her, so Emma supposed there was some good there). Cutting up her favorite cardigan, knowing she wore it a lot because she couldn't afford too many nice clothes. Breaking into her locker and gluing the front of each textbook to the back of the next, forming a brick of textbooks that she hadn't even been able to remove from her locker without the help of a pitying janitor named Adam and some crowbars.

 

 

Emma swerved her bike around, ready to bike across the grassy area if necessary, just wanting to avoid Dirk and his cronies.

 

 

Too late.

 

 

Dirk saw her almost immediately, his face lighting up with sadistic glee at the sight of his favorite target.

 

“Hey, Worma Winchester!” Dirk shouted, elbowing a few of his football buddies to get their attentions. Nobody else called her Worma anymore, because most of the kids here hadn't known them in third grade, but Dirk still used it on a frequent basis.

 

 

“Well, if it isn't Dirk the Jerk,” Emma said, cycling lazily up to them, oozing a false confidence that her mom told her she had gotten from her father. The football bros laughed, doubling over in exaggerated mirth.

 

“Ooh, Dirk, she called you a jerk, what cha going to do?” A tall brute of a teen boy sing-songed at her.

 

 

“I don't know, man, I'm shaking with fear,” Dirk responded, miming a tremble as Emma rolled her eyes, trying not to show her anxiety at their encounter.

 

 

“Who's the ugly Betty over here?” Another football player turned his attention to her, leering.

 

 

“Ugly is an understatement,” Dirk said. Emma face-palmed internally at the sophomoric barb.

 

 

“At least I'm smart,” she said. “And I might get prettier. You can't improve stupid,” Emma shot back, kicking off again and pedaling away, feeling a giddy rush at the _ooh snap_ s and _haha_ s that the jocks were throwing at Dirk. She took the long way around the school, feeling light and triumphant.

 

 

 _Shit_.

 

 

Dirk had left his cronies behind, and moved his Porsche around to block the little side road she had intended to cut through.

 

 

“Emma,” he taunted, smiling pleasantly. Emma's heart began to speed up, and she tried to turn around, but she hit a wonky cobblestone and went flying. Her palms scraped across the rough stone paving and her bike made a disconcerting _crack_ as she tumbled off of it. She sent a sarcastic thanks to whatever deity listening (not that she believed in higher powers) that she was wearing jeans today as she listened to Dirk's whistling. She recognized the song as one from the Top 40 radio stations Kate liked but she didn't. Emma preferred NPR, herself.

 

 

 

“Fuck off,” she muttered, trying to tape back together her remaining shreds of dignity.

 

 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Dirk said sweetly, coming to kneel beside her. Emma struggled to get away, but Dirk clasped her arm with the strong grip of an overly built teenage boy and she was powerless.

 

 

“No, I'm sorry,” Emma said gallantly. Dirk squinted at her and Emma could almost see the gears spinning aimlessly in his mind as he tried to comprehend what she was saying.

 

 

“Sorry for what?” Dirk asked finally, narrowing his eyes.

 

 

“That you're such a pathetic human being that you can't find gratification in something productive so you have to go around calling people invertebrates and messing up their clothes. What's next? Going to steal my lunch money?” Emma smirked, watching her tormentor's face grow red with dim-witted anger. He slapped her, inadvertently letting go of her arm. Recovered from her fall, Emma rolled out of his grasp, getting to her feet with the agile grace of a lifetime ballet dancer, and watched him heave himself to his own feet. He walked over to her bike, and her smile faltered a little bit as she saw him raise one foot and bring it down over the spokes of the front wheel, busting them out of alignment and rendering the bike useless. Her stomach grew heavy, and she tried not to think of how much the bike would cost to repair.

 

 

“Oops,” Dirk said, smirking.

 

 

“Ooh, you broke my ride,” Emma snarled, clutching her chest in mock horror. “Maybe I'll just have to key your Porsche.”

 

 

Dirk growled menacingly, and if she wasn't (secretly, of course) so nervous she would roll her eyes at how stupid he looked behaving like an animal. He began to clomp his way over to her, ogre-like, and she set her jaw in a hard line. He might be bulky and used to tackling people, but she didn't have something important, something as vulnerable as he did. Dirk raised his fist and clobbered Emma's left eye, sending her to her knees. She allowed him to slap her around for a bit until he paused for a breather. Then, with all of her might, she scrambled to her feet and brought one brown boot swiftly to his crotch, relishing his howl as she ground it in more. He dropped to his knees, cupping his groin, and she walked closer, grabbing a handful of his lanky brown hair. She brought his face forcefully down, colliding with her knee, and smirked at the _crack_ as she heard Dirk's nose break upon contact. She let go of his head and he fell to the ground, grunting, his nose spurting blood. She enjoyed a quick jump on his ribs before grabbing her bike and walking away, singing loudly. Her face stung, and her lip and eye both throbbed with pain, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had won.

 

 

**Monday, October 7, 2013, 1623**

 

 

Emma didn't bother to lock up her bike as she arrived at the ballet studio. Her ribs ached from her collision with the uneven cobblestone road, and she was limping slightly. She had a budding headache from her head being hit several times, and she was over twenty minutes late for her session at the studio. _Mademoiselle_ would be downright pissed off, even more so when Emma's dancing inevitably suffered from her attack earlier. Squaring her shoulders, she walked in, heading straight to the changing room, where she slunk past the lockers and into the adjoining bathroom, closing and locking the door behind her. She didn't allow herself the comfort of a temper tantrum. Tears would make her eyes bloodshot and people might ask questions. _Mademoiselle_ already suspected that her home life was rough, not that it actually was, but the last thing she needed was a visit from Child and Youth Services. Along the sink, other ballet girls' makeup bags sat unzipped beneath the mirror. Emma set her backpack on the floor and dug around in them until she found some concealer in the same tone as her skin. She dabbed it over the bruises on her face and arm, and covered it with some pale blush from a different girl's makeup until they weren't visible. Wincing, she looked at the red under her left eye, where a florid shiner was blooming. She swallowed and covered it up, staring herself down in the mirror the entire time. She finished up with some eyeshadow so that the rest of the makeup, if noticed, wouldn't look out of the ordinary, and shrugged as she lifted some mascara from yet another girl's makeup case. She changed gingerly into her ballet practice clothes: powder pink tights, black three quarter sleeved leotard, rose colored wraparound skirt, scuffed ballet slippers. She took another girl's bobby pins and pulled her long blonde hair back into a high ballerina bun before setting everything back in its place. She put her backpack and street clothes in a locker and held her head high as she headed to the floor.

 

 

“Miss Winchester, you're late,” snapped _mademoiselle_ , prancing over to the stereo and jabbing the _off_ button. The other girls snickered and Emma tossed them a weary glance, effectively shutting them up. At five eleven, she was graceful, lithe, and agile. She was the only girl in this class not in the _corps de ballet_ , and winning her favor was in the other students' best interests.

 

 

“My apologies, _mademoiselle_ ,” Emma said calmly, running a wispy lock of blonde hair under a bobby pin.

 

 

“You might be the best ballerina we have,” bit out the instructor, glaring at the other girls, who sobered up quickly, “but you're still a scholarship student. And that means showing up to class on time or you will have to give your scholarship to a more deserving young lady.”

 

 

Emma lowered her head respectfully at the petite woman. The other ballet students muttered to each other, the words 'scholarship' and 'poor' reaching Emma's ears. She felt her face burning, and the tears she had pushed down successfully so far threatened to well over. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't. She was stronger than that. Besides, going through and ultimately overcoming a lot of shit in her high school days would look good in her college application essays. She was eying a ballet scholarship to the arts conservatory at the state school, which, in combination with the in-state funding, could make her dreams of college a reality. She desperately wished her mom would put her petty pride away and accept the college fund that her dad was saving for her. She zoned off, thinking of what life would be like without a college education, not paying attention to the irritated tirade of the ballet teacher.

 

 

“I said, Miss Winchester, do you value the service the Masters' Ballet Company is doing for you by allowing you to study at reduced tuition?”

 

 

“Uh, yes, _mademoiselle_ ,” Emma fudged, nodding. The other girls sniggered and Emma felt her chest cloud with rage.

 

 

“Let's see the piece from _Aida_ again, see if you at least absorb _something_ from us.”

 

 

Emma swallowed, closing her eyes, pushing the pain to the back of her consciousness as the other ballet students cleared the way for her. The instructor hadn't allowed her any time to stretch or warm up, and it could damage her muscles quite seriously if she did this wrong. As the beginning notes began to swell and caper, she began to dance, losing her train of thought as she dove into the currents of the music, letting it raise her and take her far, far away.

 

 

**Friday, October 11, 2013, 0617**

 

 

Sam Winchester stifled a yawn as the flight attendant walked the aisle, nudging sleepy passengers awake and reminding them to put their trays up. He gently shook Jessica's shoulder, smiling despite himself as she shot awake and glanced around wildly before her eyes caught his and she softened.

 

 

“Hey, Sam,” she said, smiling, mouth opening into a wide yawn. “How much longer?”

 

 

“Well, they just gave the 'seats upright and trays locked' speech so I'd say we're getting pretty close,” Sam said. He shifted in his seat, his frame a little too big to get comfortable in an airplane. He focused on the landscape below, a patchwork quilt of brilliant green as they passed over a stretch of Pennsylvania farmland.

 

 

“Hey, you okay?” Jess asked softly, smiling softly at him.

 

 

“It's just.....it's been so long since I've seen him.” Sam sighed, tearing the disposable cover on the puny in-flight pillow. Jess nodded. She had never met Dean, and only heard of him when Sam was drunk enough to open up to her about his family.

 

 

 

**Friday, September 12, 2003, 2316**

 

 

 

“ _You’re plastered, Sam.”_

 

 

“ _No, seriously. My family is cursed. Grandparents on my mom's side murdered, grandad on my dad's side disappeared, grandma died young, my mother died in house fire, my father in car crash. Then there's Dean.”_

 

 

“ _Your brother? I thought he was still alive?”_

 

 

“ _He is. He's a, like, police officer spy thing. Gets shot at a lot. He has a daughter. Emma. She was an accident. I met her soon after she was born but her mother barely lets him see her.”_

 

 

“ _Shit. That sucks.”_

 

 

“ _Yeah. It'd be nice for me to see her every once in a while.”_

 

 

“ _No, I mean, it sucks for Dean.”_

 

 

“ _Oh. Yeah. I guess so.”_

 


End file.
